


Steady

by Anonymous



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Breathplay, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Father/Son Incest, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Violence, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Post-Episode: s01e20 Like Father ..., Praise Kink, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28700691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Malcolm.”The phone is held limp at his side, but he hears the voice come through. He feels like there’s no one else in the entire world right now but him and his father. It scares him.And it doesn’t scare him at all.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 20
Kudos: 114
Collections: Anonymous





	Steady

**Author's Note:**

> Every new trailer and clip has only proved that no, the directors have not yet told Michael and Tom to tone the sexual tension in their scenes together down a notch or five hundred.
> 
> Good :)

_You have to._

His father repeats it, again and again. Every time he tries to protest, every time he tries to ask for another way.

_You have to._

There is no other way. There is no one else in the room. Ainsley is upstairs, bathing, disoriented but safe.

And Malcom is here, with Endicott’s body, with Martin walking him through how to hide it on the phone.

_You have to._

“I don’t want to,” he sobs at some point, though he can’t truly pick out one moment from the next anymore. Everything is spinning and he’s lost track of time. Everything is spinning and Martin admonishes him for vomiting when the saw cuts through bone and making yet another mess to clean up. 

_You have to._

“I _can’t!_ ”

“You can. You’re my son. Mine. That's how I know you can.”

“No, no, you’re wrong—”

“Pull yourself together, boy!”

He stops. The tone freezes him like a deer in headlights. There’s something hidden in the darkest parts of his mind that responds to it the same way it had in his father’s cell just before he’d sent an ice pick through the man’s heart. He reacts to it like it’s the only thing to do, like it’s the word of the only god that matters.

“Breathe,” orders Martin. Malcolm hadn’t realized he’d stopped, and he gulps in a breath.

“You can feel this later. You don’t have the luxury of wasting time and neither do I. How long until they find where I’ve hidden? Trace the phone I’ve taken? Stop feeling. _Stop thinking._ Listen to my voice, and do as I say, or your sister will pay the price.”

Malcolm won’t let that happen. He won’t let Ainsley go to jail. He won’t let Ainsley suffer like he has, like he _will,_ because he’s still likely going to go to prison.

So Malcolm listens. Malcolm obeys. There’s nothing more to do.

He has to.

He has to.

He _has_ to.

And when it’s done, when every order is followed through, when the body is hidden and buried beneath the house, when the blood is cleaned and there’s nothing more to do, Malcolm doesn’t feel like he can do anything else. He doesn't feel like he can go on at all. 

He doesn’t recall slumping to his knees in the dusty underground tunnel. He doesn’t recognize the wailing sobs that bounce about the walls as coming from his own mouth.

“Malcolm.”

The phone is held limp at his side, but he hears the voice come through. He feels like there’s no one else in the entire world right now but him and his father. It scares him.

And it doesn’t scare him at all.

“Malcolm,” his father says again, and he finally raises the phone back to his ear. He can’t stop whimpering on every exhale, can’t stop choking on his breaths in.

“ _Malcolm,_ ” murmurs Martin, a third and final time, and Malcolm sobs.

It feels so warm, so familiar, too comforting, and Malcolm cries out, “Dad…”

“Oh, my boy…” Somehow he gets even softer. He coos his words, speaks them as if Malcolm is going to fall apart should they be too loud.

He thinks he would. He thinks he might, still.

“My boy. You did so good. Don’t cry anymore. Daddy’s here.”

Only he isn’t, and Malcolm is struck with the strongest sense of missing him since he’d been a child. He doesn’t know what he wants. He thinks he wouldn’t hate having Martin’s arms around him, steadying him, just until the shaking stops.

“I know how fragile you are right now, son. I need you to relax, alright? You did everything perfectly. You’re safe. Ainsley is safe.”

“No...no, I’m still going to—”

“Even if that’s true,” interrupts Martin, “your—”

“Oh, _Gil,_ he might be—”

“ _Malcolm._ ”

Malcolm only starts to sob again, loud and helpless. He pants, unable to help it as new tears run down his face, and Martin, sharp and in that same tone, suddenly growls, “Cover your mouth.”

Malcolm does. He doesn’t even consider disobeying. It seems second nature to reach up and do as his father commands. He whimpers into his palm, sucking in air desperately through his nose, and Martin sighs in irritation.

“Your nose, too, if you can’t be quiet and let me _speak._ ”

That one isn’t an order, really.

Malcolm still does it. He pushes his hand up a little further and holds his nose, too, until his noises, and his breathing, are muffled into nothing.

“Oh,” says Martin. “Good boy. That’s...my, that’s fascinating. Listen to me, Malcolm. Even if your little team can’t have the charges dropped, you are not going to jail. You are smarter than that. You’ll go, and you won’t come back until it’s safe. And Ainsley isn’t going to jail, boy. Your mother isn’t. Isn’t that what you wanted? Sacrifice, Malcolm, doesn’t come without its price…a few months vacation while it all calms down doesn’t sound like a very expensive one.”

Malcolm dips his head down to his chest. His lungs are aching but his head is the slightest bit clearer, and the words stick around far longer than the others.

“And stop thinking about Gil for half a moment, will you? _I’m_ here. _I’m_ your father. _I_ love you, more than he ever could!”

Malcolm whimpers. It doesn’t come out, trapped within his mouth, but his father must hear something anyway. 

"You're still..."

It hurts, but he still doesn't disobey. The option still doesn't even come across his mind, because the only option he has is to await further instructions.

“Breathe,” Martin orders for the second time, and Malcolm coughs as he finally does, wiping his sleeve under his nose.

Neither of them speak for a minute. Malcolm catches his breath, and Martin sounds a bit like he’s having trouble catching his.

“You’re a docile little thing right now, aren’t you?”

Malcolm is too tired, suddenly, to respond. He needs a shower, he needs sleep when he knows he’s never going to sleep again because—

“Ah, ah. Don’t start that again.”

He drops his body lower, doubles over himself, and groans, but keeps his breathing steady.

“I love you, Malcolm. Do you love me?”

Malcolm shakes his head.

He doesn’t say no, because that would be a lie. 

“How much do you love me, Malcolm?”

He holds his breath again, because he doesn’t want an answer to slip past his lips.

“Oh,” says Martin once more, far more interested. “That much, mmm?”

Malcolm shakes his head again. Martin can’t see it, so it doesn’t matter.

“Would you do anything for me right now, Malcolm?” Martin breathes out slowly into the receiver. “I think you would. You’re my good boy. My perfect boy. You’ve done so well for me tonight, do you know that? Have I told you how proud I am of you?”

Malcolm presses his face into his sleeve. He squeezes his thighs together, and tries to ignore the rush of blood between them that results from the praise.

“Would you touch yourself for me, Malcolm?”

The words catch him completely off-guard. He almost drops the phone, and he lets out a moan far louder than he should.

Martin makes a noise in response, from deep in his chest. There’s no mistaking the arousal in it. Without waiting for permission Malcolm would never allow himself to give, without waiting to see if it's a no he likely wouldn't listen to anyways, he says into the phone, “Touch yourself for me.”

There’s no filter in Malcolm’s mind, no ability to choose which orders he follows and which to refuse. He can’t refuse them at all.

So he slides his hand, speckled with dried blood, down to the front of his pants.

He gasps, and Martin does, too.

“Malcolm,” whispers Martin. “My good boy. My perfectly obedient boy. You’re so good, Malcolm. You’re my favorite thing. You always have been.”

Malcolm’s mouth opens as his head falls back, and he takes in another shaky gasp.

“That’s it. Let me help you relax, Malcolm...it’s been such a long night. Okay?”

Wrong. This is wrong, and he needs to stop.

Instead, against his will, or maybe entirely with it, Malcolm whines out, “ _Okay_.”

Martin makes another noise, shifting around. When he settles, he starts to speak again, low and hushed in a way that draws another moan out of Malcolm.

“Wrap your hand around yourself, my boy.”

Malcolm is frantic in his obedience this time. Anything to distract himself from what he’s just done, because nothing could possibly be worse. He pops open the button with trembling fingers and slides his hand around his already hardened length. He cries out, from the tension or the relief or both, and Martin speaks again.

“Good boy. Good boy. So good for me. Now stroke yourself.”

He does. He spreads his thighs, legs still trapped under him, and whines as he starts to jerk himself off.

Martin’s breathing is labored now, too. Malcolm wonders if he’s doing the same, and hates how much the thought turns him on.

“If I were there,” says Martin, “I’d help you. Would you like that? Would you like Daddy to touch you?”

Malcolm curses, squeezing his eyes shut, rocking into his hand. “Mmm…”

“What?”

Malcolm doesn’t answer, too busy, and Martin demands, “Stop.”

“No—” Malcolm whispers, but he does. He has to. He's never needed to obey his father _more._

“I want an answer before we continue, my boy.”

He can’t do this, play this game, too desperate. Not now, not after tonight, not in whatever state of mind he's fallen into that he can't climb his way out of. He’s already leaked into his hand, slicking his fingers, and he nods. “Y-yes.”

Martin _groans_ this time. Malcolm can’t prevent himself from stroking his cock again, just once, at the sound. “Oh, please—”

“You’d let Daddy touch you? Let him make you feel good? Of course you would...you’re mine. How wet are you for me right now, Malcolm?”

“Dad…”

Martin laughs. Malcolm wants to sob in frustration.

“What was that?”

“ _Daddy,_ ” says Malcolm. “Please. Please, I need to...I need to…”

Martin shifts around again. “Yes. Malcolm, yes. I know you need. You need someone to control you. You stopped breathing for me, my boy. You're in a _state._ Don't worry. I'll take care of you. I always have. Go on and touch."

He starts again, gasping. He thinks about putting the phone down, on speaker, but Martin sounds much closer this way, and he wouldn’t take that away from himself. It’s what he needs. He just needs...

“Close your eyes,” Martin says. “Imagine it. Imagine me next to you. Imagine it’s my hand on you.”

“Oh, fuck,” Malcolm groans as he does that, too. It should disgust him, not make him throb against his palm, not make his heart thud harder in his chest as he sweats. “Dad, please…”

“Tell me to do it faster.”

Malcolm does. He gasps, “Faster, please—” and then starts to whine without holding back, grinding his ass down into his ankle and then bouncing against the heel of his shoe for stimulation there, too. It’s not as good as it could be, not as good as it would be if it were—

“Fuck me—”

“ _Fuck you?_ ”

“Daddy, my God, _fuck me,_ ” he wheezes. He doesn't know what he's saying anymore, or maybe knows too well, and he doesn't care either way. “Please—I want—I just want—”

“Filthy,” says Martin. “Malcolm, I’d give anything to be inside you. Imagine I am...your body, Malcolm, it’s...you’d be so tight. You’d feel so good.”

“Tell me, please…” begs Malcolm. “Tell me how…”

“How I’d fuck you? _Malcolm_...” He’s panting uncontrollably now, and Malcolm is ruined by the fact that they’re both about to come from this. He doesn't care, nothing has ever felt so good—

“Yes!” He digs his heel in harder, wants to fuck himself on his fingers but he just can’t stop touching himself or holding Martin close. “Please! Fuck me, fuck me, _fuck me—_ ”

“I’d finger you open. Fuck you with them until you were begging.”

“ _Yeah?_ ”

“I’d make sure you could take me. I would never hurt you—”

“Want you to.”

“...Oh?”

“I want you to—please—please—hurt me—”

“Then I’d be rough. I’d slam you down on the bed, Malcolm, or against the wall—”

“The, nhn, _wall_.”

“I’d pick you up so easily, and you'd wrap those pretty, thin legs around my waist...I'd hold you against the wall...push my cock into that hole of yours Malcolm, until you were full of me. Until there was nothing but _me._ ”

“Fuck, fuck, Dad, I’m—I’m so close— _m_ _ore_ —"

“Yes—my boy, me too—and I’d fuck you. I'd kiss those lips until they were swollen red. Do you know how much I want to taste you every time I see you? I'd fuck you, hit your spot, make you scream. I'd wrap my hand around that throat, squeeze the air out of you. You'd like that, wouldn't you? For me to choke and fuck you until your pretty face is blue? For me to fuck you so hard you—"

Orgasm hits Malcolm so suddenly he never hears the rest. He shrieks, coming so hard his vision whites out entirely. His entire world pinpoints to pleasure and the sound of Martin choking over his own release, and he fists himself through it as his body shudders.

He collapses completely when it's over. He drops onto his side and presses his face against the cold pavement and gasps for air. Martin's breaths are shuddering.

Malcolm doesn't know what to be more horrified over, anymore. Maybe that's what he'd wanted. Maybe that's for the best.

"That's my boy," murmurs Martin. 

Malcolm hangs up. His ears ring, and he can still feel his hand, or Martin's, around his cock, can still hear Martin's voice in his mind. So satisfied to get what he wanted, no matter the cost to Malcolm, as its always been.

But with come drying all over his clothing, in the moments before shame and guilt from something or other will start eating away at his belly again, Malcolm hates that he feels more steady than he has in a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this and are 18+, perhaps you'd like to come hang out on a new PSon server [here](https://discord.com/invite/eQ3TK4bxn4) for all the good stuff Season 2 brings? ☺️♥️


End file.
